Julia’s punch had been a bad idea. In fact, as Bebe struggled and failed to get out of bed on Christmas Eve morning, she was fairly certain it was the worst idea in the history of humanity.

“Are you coming into town?” Vivian’s question felt a thousand times louder and more grating than usual when she popped her head into Bebe’s room.

“Urgh,” Bebe replied, pulling the blankets up over her head.

“Hmph,” Melinda snorted. Perfect. Vivian had brought reinforcements. “It serves her right for drinking liquor.” Melinda marched into the room, throwing the curtains wide.

Even with her head under the covers, that blast of light was too much. Bebe groaned and wriggled deeper into her bed.

“Oh, leave her alone, Melinda.” Vivian’s uncharacteristic moment of mercy took Bebe by surprise. “Just let her sleep. We can break our backs decorating for her wedding reception on our own. And if we fall off a ladder while hanging that awful bunting or pierce our fingers while sewing rosettes, it’ll be on her head.”

That was more like Vivian. Footsteps retreated, and a moment later, the door slammed.

Bebe moaned and swallowed the bile that rose up her throat. She’d barely touched liquor in her life, and as far as she was concerned, she’d never touch it again. How anyone could make a habit of drinking and end up feeling so bad all the time was beyond her.

She drifted back into a miserable half-sleep. Time passed, although she wasn’t sure how much. When she woke again, her mind seemed to be working better. What had she always heard her father’s ranch hands saying when they’d indulged too much? Coffee. Coffee would help. And food. She was certain she’d heard someone say how important it was to eat the morning after a bender.

With great effort, her stomach roiling, she pulled herself out of bed and managed to wash and dress. Somehow, she made it downstairs, giving thanks that the stove still had a fire in it, and that a few more logs in the firebox had it hot enough to boil water for coffee. Along with that, she managed to scramble a few eggs and make some toast, and after what seemed like a painful eternity, she sat at the kitchen table and forced down her meager feast.

Everything came back to her. Everything about the confessions she’d made to her friends. Everything about Hubert’s arrival at the party. Everything Hubert said to her. Everything. He was leaving. She slumped on the table, burying her face in her hands. He was abandoning her again, going to Denver to—

She blinked and sat straighter. He was going to Denver to investigate Price. Price had threatened him, telling him to stay away from her. Bebe blinked again and reached for what was left of her coffee. Whether it was the hot liquid and nourishment or her brain finally thinking things through, she felt better. Price had promised her that if she still had cold feet, as he called it, by Christmas Day, they would call off the wedding. He’d sounded so kind and sincere when he was talking to her.

Kind and sincere or manipulative?

She set her coffee mug down a little harder than she intended to. Why would Price make nice to her, then go into town and threaten Hubert? Unless he was trying to sew just enough doubt in her heart to convince her to make the decision to marry him on her own.

She let out a breath and stood. Of course that was what he’d been doing. She wouldn’t have fallen for it except that she and Vivian had just reached a rare moment of understanding. But if Price had gone immediately into town to confront Hubert, that must have meant that he desperately wanted to marry her. Even though he didn’t love her.

She pushed away from the table and marched into the dining room, but she didn’t know where she was going. Her thoughts were spinning, and she needed to move to keep them going. The more her headache faded, the clearer her thoughts became. The only reason Price would have to continue with their marriage was so that he could get the money from his family. That money was supposed to pay off the mortgage on the ranch and prevent it from going into foreclosure, but who was to say that Price wouldn’t use it for whatever he wanted?

She moved from the dining room to the hall, pacing around the house as her thoughts slowly churned. Was it possible that Price intended to marry her, then run off with his money? Without paying off the ranch’s mortgage? Was he the kind of man who could leave her and her sisters and nephew high and dry?

Yes. Without a doubt. The truth hit her harder than the liquor had the night before. And instinct told her there was more to the story than that. She marched through the front parlor, into the hall, and up the stairs to Price’s room. Neither Bebe nor her sisters had entered their father’s old room since Price had moved in. They’d respected Price’s privacy, but now Bebe was wondering if her erstwhile fiancé deserved that kind of respect at all.

She pushed open the door and stomped into the center of the room, looking around. There wasn’t much to look at. Price was tidy to a fault. Everything looked to be in perfect order. The bed was made with military precision. There were no personal effects anywhere in sight. That in itself struck Bebe as odd, as if Price wasn’t actually planning to stick around and put down roots.

She moved to the wardrobe, throwing open the doors. Price’s clothes hung in neat rows. His shoes were lined up perfectly along the bottom, his hats on the shelf at the top. There was nothing else there. Bebe closed the doors again and moved to the bureau that held his shirts and underthings. With her nose wrinkled in distaste, she pushed everything aside, searching to see if there was anything underneath. Nothing.

She checked the wash table and the trunk at the foot of his bed. Nothing. The room gave up no clues. Frustrated, she returned to the center of the room and turned a circle, trying to see what wasn’t there.

“If I had something to hide, where would I hide it?” she asked. She closed her eyes. “Where would I hide it?”

A possibility hit her, and she opened her eyes. She crouched beside the bed and lifted the quilt to expose the mattress. As soon as she lifted the corner of the mattress, there it was. A large, bulging folder.

Heart beating faster, she pulled it out and sat on the floor, folder in her lap. She unwound the string that kept it closed, revealing several dozen letters, tied together in four different packets. One bundle was of letters from The First Bank of Haskell. One was from Bank of Denver. Another looked to be personal correspondence. The final packet was from the WSGA. Those looked to be the oldest letters in the bunch, so she started there.

“Dear Mr. Penworthy,” she read in the oldest letter, dated three years ago. “In regards to your inquiry about the Bonneville family of Haskell, you are correct in your assumption that Rex Bonneville’s health is in a dire distress. You are also correct to assume that his daughters are vulnerable and uneducated about the business of ranching, or any business at all.”

Bebe frowned, scanning the rest of the letter. When she finished that one, she moved on to the next, and the next. Price had asked a great deal of questions about her family, long before he’d shown up on their doorstep to help her father. As she remembered it, he hadn’t known anything about their situation, but the letters told a different story.

Chewing her lip, she moved on to the letters from the Bank of Denver. The oldest of those was from shortly after he’d come to work for them. It wasn’t much, just a notice of deposit into an account that already existed. Except that the deposit was a great deal of money. In fact, all of the letters from the Bank of Denver were notices of deposit. Price had quite a bit of money in that bank and had added an impressive amount in the last few years. She wouldn’t have thought all that much of it, except that he had been talking as thought they were all dependent on the money he would receive from his family when the two of them married. Judging by the ending balance on most of the statements, Price could have paid off the mortgage debt on his own at any time.

She almost gave up on the Denver bank statements and moved on, but one statement in particular caught her eye and made her gasp. The date was barely a week after he’d taken out the loan from The First Bank of Haskell. Bebe had always assumed that money had gone to purchasing livestock and paying back wages to the ranch hands. But there it was in black and white. The entire cost of the loan had been deposited directly into Price’s account in the Bank of Denver.

“Why, you thieving cheat,” she hissed, wanting to tear up the letters.

There must have been more to the story, though. She wanted answers. She threw down the Bank of Denver letters and tore into the personal correspondence. What unfolded was a series of conversations between Price and someone named Greenburg. They contained details about a silver mine somewhere in Colorado, a shipping business operating out of San Diego, and a timber outfit in Oregon. All of the businesses were flourishing, but all of them required capital to keep going. Most telling of all were the letters that talked about a mansion and vineyard that was being built near Santa Rosa, California.

Prickles raced down Bebe’s back. The pieces clicked together in her mind. Price had used them and their ranch to finance his other endeavors. Things were going well, so he was planning to retire to a vineyard. But he must have needed just a little bit more cash, the money from his family, so he needed to proceed with the wedding. There was no telling if he intended to take her with him to California or if he meant to leave her in Haskell, but either way, Bebe was furious.

She had just one more question, which could very well be answered in the letters from The First Bank of Haskell. How much did they really owe to Solomon, and was there a way to repay it without Price’s help?

What she found in the letters from Solomon’s bank was not even close to what she expected to find. The letters weren’t just from the bank, they were from Solomon himself. And they weren’t addressed to Price, they were for Vivian, Melinda, and her. They started out in a very businesslike tone, asking why no payments had been made on the loan and offering help. Solomon explained that if it were up to him alone, he would give them the money they needed, but he had investors and backers who needed to see a return on their investment. As time went on, Solomon confessed that he had made several of the early payments out of his own money to keep his investors happy. But because he’d barely received any communication from the sisters at all, he’d had to stop paying their debts. Even then, he’d offered better terms, laid out plans for them to make payments. Solomon had bent over backwards to stop the ranch from going into foreclosure. Even the last letter of the bunch—dated only a few days ago—pleaded with them to meet him halfway before it was too late.

Bebe read the last of the letters and swallowed. She felt sick all over again. Price had fooled them all from the start, the little rat. But maybe there was still a chance. Maybe she could talk to Solomon and do something to prevent disaster.

As she stood, a few of the letters spilled out of her hands. She knelt to pick them up, reaching under the bureau to get one that had sailed away. In the process, her hand hit something. She grabbed it and drew it out into the open. It was the package Price had been so intent to hide from her the other day. And it was addressed to her. What was more, the return address was listed as San Francisco.

Bebe tossed the rest of the letters on Price’s bed, not caring if they were neat or scattered. She sat and tore into the package, which had already been opened. It was postmarked more than six months ago. Inside were two stacks of letters tied with twine and a single, folded sheet of paper. One stack of letters she recognized immediately. She’d seen them before. They were in her own handwriting. Every one was addressed to Hubert. The second set was new to her, but she would know Hubert’s handwriting anywhere. It was the handwriting on the single sheet of paper that she didn’t recognize. She scrambled to unfold the paper and read it.

“Dear Miss Bonneville. I deeply regret the lateness of these letters. It seems as though there was some confusion when your letters were forwarded to our offices upon Mr. Strong’s relocation to Japan. It seems there was further confusion with Mr. Strong’s letters sent to you, as they were included in packets of correspondence and articles Mr. Strong had written for our newspaper. One of our clerks, in a fit of efficiency that turns out to have been more of a mistake, the letters were filed in Mr. Strong’s old office. They were discovered last week, and so I have taken the liberty of packaging them together and sending them to you. I hope you are at the same address and that you can forgive the oversight on our party. Sincerely, J.T. Fennimore.”

Bebe let out a strangled cry, tears instantly springing to her eyes. Hubert wasn’t lying. He had written to her. It was all just a stupid misunderstanding. She clutched the letters to her chest, not sure whether she wanted to read them all or fly to San Francisco to give the clerk who had filed them away instead of sending them a piece of her mind. It hardly mattered. Tears streamed down her face as she kissed the pile of letters Hubert had sent to her. There were dozens of them, all unopened. He hadn’t forgotten her. He’d remained true after all.

She started to untie the twine from his letters but stopped. As much as she wanted to read them all, there would be time for that later. Right now, she had more things to worry about than letters. She needed to deal with Price’s duplicity. With a surge of righteous indignation, she leapt off the bed and marched into the hall. There was no point in hiding the fact that she’d read all of Price’s correspondence. As soon as she talked to Solomon, she’d find Price and wring his scrawny neck. But not before she made absolutely certain she knew what was going on. She rushed into her room to tuck her and Hubert’s letters safely in a drawer, then set off on her mission.

One other thought stuck with her as she donned her coat and winter things. She needed Hubert. She needed him if she was going to do what had to be done and get rid of Price for good. But as far as she knew, Hubert was in Denver. He’d been in such a hurry the night before that she found it hard to believe he would wait to leave. It caused her heart to ache in her chest to think that he’d abandoned her in her moment of need once again. She saddled and mounted Glory, telling herself not to think about it yet. The ranch needed saving before her feelings did.

“Solomon!” It was a small miracle that the bank wasn’t locked up tight when Bebe reached town. It didn’t appear to actually be open, but for some reason, the lobby door was unlocked. “Solomon Templesmith, are you here?”

“Bebe?” Bebe nearly cried in relief as Solomon stepped out of his office near the back of the open area behind the bank’s barred windows. “Bebe, what are you doing here? Is everything all right?” Solomon marched to the front of the bank and through the small locked door that separated the office from the lobby. The tinsel and pine decorations that festooned the lobby fluttered as he did.

“No,” Bebe wailed. “Everything is not all right.” She flew to meet him, wanting to grab him and shake the truth out of him.

Except that Solomon showed no sign of being reluctant or stern at all. In fact, he gripped her arms as though trying to keep her steady, and stared at her with brotherly concern. “What is it? Is it Vivian or Melinda or Reese?”

Bebe shook her head. She let out a breath, then stared hard into Solomon’s eyes. “Have you been paying our loan and trying to extend the terms so that the ranch doesn’t go into foreclosure?”

Solomon blinked in confusion. “Of course. I’ve always—” Understanding dawned, and his expression pinched. “You didn’t know?”

Bebe shook her head. “Price handled all of the business himself. He never let us see any correspondence or anything official.”

“He didn’t consult you or your sisters on anything?”

“No,” Bebe groaned. “I only just found all of your letters now.”

“All of them?”

Bebe nodded. Tears stung at her eyes, both for the terrible situation they were in and out of guilt. She’d spent years thinking that Solomon was a cruel, heartless enemy. But then, Price had probably encouraged that too. “I’m so sorry, Solomon. I didn’t know you were trying to help us. None of us knew. If we had….”

“It’s all right, Bebe.”

In a move that surprised Bebe in the extreme, Solomon closed his arms around her and gave her a comforting, protective hug. As wonderful as it was, all Bebe could think was that it should have been Hubert comforting her that way. He should have been the one supporting her, not Solomon.

“We have to do something,” she said, pushing away when her misery became too painful. “Is there any way your investors will let us have just a little more time?”

Solomon sighed and shook his head. “I’ve done everything I can.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “They wanted me to foreclose last summer. I’ve already stretched things with them as far as I can.”

“Oh.” She tried not to sob, but the single syllable came out sounding like a prelude to tears.

“Don’t you worry, though,” he went on. “I’ve been talking to Honoria about this for months, and we’ve decided that if it came to it, you and—” He sighed, his shoulders dropping. “And Vivian and Reese and Melinda are more than welcome to stay with us for as long as you need to.”

As grateful as Bebe felt, she could only imagine what Vivian and Melinda would say. Solomon and Honoria were downright heroic for inviting that kind of mess into their house. In truth, it would never work.

“I wish Hubert were here,” Bebe said, fighting not to cry. “He would know what we could do. He would help me.”

“What do you mean?” Solomon asked.

“I mean that Hubert is so smart. He’s seen and experienced so much. And…and I just need him is all.” Tears threatened Bebe, and her heart felt heavy.

“No, I mean, what do you mean about ‘if Hubert were here’?” Solomon asked.

“He’s left me again.” She lowered her head, hopelessness swallowing her. “He’s gone to Denver to investigate Price.”

“But I just saw Hubert this morning,” Solomon said.

Bebe sucked in a breath and glanced up to meet his eyes. “At the train station?”

“No, at Vernon’s house.”

“Was he…was he packing his things?”

“No,” Solomon laughed. “He looked like he was bringing in groceries.”

Bebe suddenly had a hard time breathing. “But he said he was going to Denver. He said he needed to investigate Price.”

Solomon squeezed her arm. “Hubert is here. In Haskell. Probably down at Vernon’s house right now. If you hurry—”

Bebe didn’t wait for him to finish his sentence. She whirled around and flew out the door.